Please understand, this building at 19/11 Bankova has a grandiose baroque facade with floral golden accents beneath each window. The whole structure itself is a concave rectangle, a feature I've noticed about a lot of the buildings throughout Kyiv. Because Bankova runs on an incline (remember my good friend Крутій Узвіз?), the entire building stands atop a wedge-shaped black marble foundation, which houses an upscale boutique.
There is a steel door with no knob or window. Clearly not an entrance... at least not one that I would like to use.
I walk around to the other side of the building, as it is situated on a corner. There is a ramp. I go up it. Beneath my feet: tar paper. Am I on a roof?! Not knowing what to make of this structure, or what else to do, I stay on this 'roof' and go back around the corner.
II Kyiv-Lviv Flight 33 Take-off II
The roof-path brings me to a wooden doorway. Really? A wooden doorway to a baroque marble building which you access via roof? Well, it's the only entrance I've seen. Stepping inside, to my left is a security booth. A tall, lanky, 20-something young man in Ukrainian military fatigues emerges, asks me something in Ukrussian.
What is Ukrussian, you ask? It's that Russified-Ukrainian that gets more and more pronounced the further east you travel in Україна. Remember the familiar comfort bestowed by the Ukie spoken by Львів'яни? In Kyiv, the common dialect sounds abrasive and foreign to my ear. The following video concisely illustrates my point:
One cannot deny that Ukraine has absorbed cultural-linguistic influences from bordering lands for centuries. In the Western Ukriane of Бабця і Дідо, the influences were primarily Polish and German, which is why to Eastern Ukrainians it sounds like I am speaking Polish. Kyiv, however, has been influenced considerably by the Beast to the East, and there you have it: Ukrussian.
Scholars have long tracked the linguistic changes to the Ukrainian language, often citing Soviet-imposed bans on the use of the Ukrainian language in schools and published works (a practice that still occurs today). One must also mention the systematic extermination of rural Ukrainians by Stalin's government-orchestrated Голодомор famine and the resettlement of land within Ukraine by ethnic Russians. More on this topic later. Seems like the more things change, the more they stay the same, ahem, Eastern Ukraine.
Ultimately, I have come to think of the Ukrainian language as a spectrum spanning from West to East, as well as throughout the diaspora. I must mention that socially in Ukraine, people assess one another and form judgments based on the type of Ukrainian you speak. This in itself feels foreign to me, as I have always assumed that in the States, people form immediate judgments about one another based on appearance.
Back to the awkward interaction with the Bankova apartment security kid. In Ukrainian, I explain that I've rented an apartment in this building. I bust out my visual aids, showing him the address. I ask him if he has the key, as the host instructed me that someone would be waiting for me with it at the front, if this was, indeed, the 'front'.
His expression is blank purity.
Apartment #19, I show him on the itinerary. It's actually on the landing right above where we were standing.
I can see it.
It's... right... there...
He doesn't know what I'm talking about.
By this point in my (mis)adventure, I am certain that I look horrid: red faced, sweaty, bags under the eyes, hair flying everywhere, bearing my veritable cross (of luggage). The young soldier's face softened when I looked into his eyes. "Зачекай," he said as he pulled out his Samsung GT-E1202i. Now we're getting somewhere.
He does not say who he is calling. He speaks so rapidly that I would not have picked up on it if he were speaking чисто по Українське. Here's what I could gather: woman, apartment #19, I don't know, okay. Hanging up, he tells me to wait again. Thanks, Private Kafka. I'll just have myself a seat on these here stairs and take the load off. The young soldier retreats to his security booth.
A few minutes go by, I hear a click. Private Kafka turns on the TV and starts watching a political talk show. A few more minutes go by. Let me try to call host Nick Pogosian on my trusty KyivStar phone. I dial the contact number listed on my itinerary. Number not valid... WTF?! This must be a mistake. A burst of panic--this cannot be happening. My throat constricts. I glance over at soldier boy: feet up, watchin' TV, playing with his... cell phone.
Okay, okay, think. Okay, I'll just, um, walk up to apartment #19 and knock on the door. Yes, that's what I'll do. Maybe this is all a big mix up, and I'll be laughing myself to sleep about it in just a couple of short hours. Yeah--I'll bet they're waiting for me with a key inside the apartment. Of course! Makes perfect sense.
<СТУК СТУК>
No answer.
<СТУК СТУК> (louder this time).
A large, bald man answers the door, smirking. An older woman with black hair stands behind him in the foyer.
 |
| A Japanese Illustration entitled The World Around 1900 |
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| Victims of the man-made famine, Holodomor. |
Ultimately, I have come to think of the Ukrainian language as a spectrum spanning from West to East, as well as throughout the diaspora. I must mention that socially in Ukraine, people assess one another and form judgments based on the type of Ukrainian you speak. This in itself feels foreign to me, as I have always assumed that in the States, people form immediate judgments about one another based on appearance.
Back to the awkward interaction with the Bankova apartment security kid. In Ukrainian, I explain that I've rented an apartment in this building. I bust out my visual aids, showing him the address. I ask him if he has the key, as the host instructed me that someone would be waiting for me with it at the front, if this was, indeed, the 'front'.
His expression is blank purity.
Apartment #19, I show him on the itinerary. It's actually on the landing right above where we were standing.
I can see it.
It's... right... there...
He doesn't know what I'm talking about.
By this point in my (mis)adventure, I am certain that I look horrid: red faced, sweaty, bags under the eyes, hair flying everywhere, bearing my veritable cross (of luggage). The young soldier's face softened when I looked into his eyes. "Зачекай," he said as he pulled out his Samsung GT-E1202i. Now we're getting somewhere.
He does not say who he is calling. He speaks so rapidly that I would not have picked up on it if he were speaking чисто по Українське. Here's what I could gather: woman, apartment #19, I don't know, okay. Hanging up, he tells me to wait again. Thanks, Private Kafka. I'll just have myself a seat on these here stairs and take the load off. The young soldier retreats to his security booth.
A few minutes go by, I hear a click. Private Kafka turns on the TV and starts watching a political talk show. A few more minutes go by. Let me try to call host Nick Pogosian on my trusty KyivStar phone. I dial the contact number listed on my itinerary. Number not valid... WTF?! This must be a mistake. A burst of panic--this cannot be happening. My throat constricts. I glance over at soldier boy: feet up, watchin' TV, playing with his... cell phone.
Okay, okay, think. Okay, I'll just, um, walk up to apartment #19 and knock on the door. Yes, that's what I'll do. Maybe this is all a big mix up, and I'll be laughing myself to sleep about it in just a couple of short hours. Yeah--I'll bet they're waiting for me with a key inside the apartment. Of course! Makes perfect sense.
<СТУК СТУК>
No answer.
<СТУК СТУК> (louder this time).
A large, bald man answers the door, smirking. An older woman with black hair stands behind him in the foyer.
II Landing, Lviv, 9:30 pm, точно II
"I'm renting this apartment," I say to the smarmy, Eastern European Mr. Clean-looking fellow, "Here's my reservation." I hold the itinerary out for him to have a gander. He shakes his head, still smirking. "Я не знаю," his only reply.
He knows. Something's not right.
Але що зробл'ю--what, am I gonna take this guy on or something? There is no presence of authority to mediate, save for the indifferent Private Kafka. Everyone else is down the block watching the demonstration dissipate. Good ol' Private Kafka, absorbed in the political TV talk show rhetoric... actually, on second thought, he may be 'resting his eyes'.
"А що... ви тут мешкаєте?" I ask, nodding at his wife. "Мешкаємо, мешкаємо." Unbelievable. He is claiming that they live there. I have no way to contact Nick, no way to access the internet, ultimately no immediate recourse, but I do need a place to stay for the night. Think. Think. I'll just go to a hotel, for one night. Buy some time to sort this all out. It'll cost a fortune, but I've got a situation here.
On with the наплечник, carry-on with the broken strap Mac Guyver-ed atop the rolling suitcase, hoodie around the waist, onward.
At least it's downhill this time...
At least it's downhill this time...
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